Skeleton in the Closet
by Skeleicide
Summary: Rorschach, one of the best criminal catchers and mind bogglers out there. What happens when someone just might be able to beat him as his own game… and makes him re-think his next move?


AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is just a quick write of mine. I am not a story-writer, I am a poet. Writing a story isn't as natural to me. I apologize for the crapiness of it all, but I had to give it a shot. You never know until you try. I don't have really any intentions of continuing, unless I feel like I can go somewhere, anywhere with this. Please support and help me out with some creative writing tips.

Thanks. iSkellington.

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The grey cotton-thick rubble lifted from the air, swirling dust accumulated into small clouds, red blood smeared on the black tar, and faces ripped of all the goodness in the world.

Their lay that long limp skeleton, no longer dancing, no more prancing, no more glares and no more deathly stares. A face smeared on to the concrete, body lying beneath the turned truck. Fire burning upon her arms and tearing at her flesh.

There was no pain; she hadn't felt any of it. She had gone in her own peace, slipping away into the light oblivion, painless. Only to feel that sharp well-guided bullet that had sunk in her chest.

Before the fires, before her death, before everything seemed to go to hell.

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The night was young, blackened smoldering coals burned away one by one keeping the less fortunate of Manhattan warm, or rather… warmer. Those hollowed out streets of Manhattan, twisted and turned, with grime and all the brown rusted blood one city could even bare to spill. Flesh wounded streets and crippling brick, fallen to dust. Manhattan, never once a pleasurable place to live, smog, carbon admissions, deaths, and rapes. Not once has this hell-hole of a town seen a good day.

Hands suck deep into the brown over coat, walking down the trashed sidewalk, hunched over slightly, the _tap tap tap tap_ of his feet. In constant motion, never standing still.

He had a job to do.

He had a man to find.

According to his informant, the criminal's _real _name was Rainford Lombardi. 46. Murderer. Raped and killed off six twenty to twenty four years olds, in the past seven months. Not enough evidence to convict.

Bullshit.

He was a good criminal. Too bad, Rorschach was an even better detective.

The swinging glass door of Happy Harry's opened with the slightest push, and his feet found their own way to the owner of the bar Happy Harry himself who stood polishing a chipped glass cup behind the ratty counter. The fat, bow-tie wearing bastard cowered behind the counter as Rorschach approached his inked silhouette masked washing away and reforming.

"Hello Happy Harry." Rorschach grumbled in throat in that normal guff tone of his.

"Eh-Hello Ru-Ruh-Rorschach." Said the fat-man.

"Looking for Rainford Lombardi. Know him?"

The room great silent. _Rainford? What does he want with Rainford? _

"Then you do know him. Where is he?"

Still nothing and the roomed thinned and few people slipped out the glass door and out to the streets.

_Cowards._

Without a moments hesitation Rorschach's body flew across the counter landing right into Happy Harry gripping him by the collar of his shirt and forcing him back into the shelves. Multi-colored bottled and glass cup fell to the floor and shattered around them, a cascading ocean of glass; and with out hesitation Rorschach picked up one of the shattered bottles and held it to Happy Harry's throat.

"Where. Is. Lombardi?" Rorschach growled, pressing the bottle against his flesh.

Cowering and tears starting to drip from the mans eyes, "222 East 34th Street, I-I think it's the first floor apartments… 110. Th-That's what he said. Th-that's where he is. Ha-hoe-hopefully. Just left for ha-home an hour ago…. P-please don't kill m-me."

"Hm." Rorschach dropped the man to his groveling knees.

"Thank you Happy Harry." With a slight tip of his fedora, Rorschach hopped over the counter top once more, dropped the bottle on the floor, shoved his hands into his pockets and left without saying anything.

222 East 34th. Number 110.

Seemed simple enough. That rat-bastard needs to pay for what has done. It's too bad more than one had lost her life. They shall be avenged.

Quickly the minuets turned into an hour as Rorschach entered the halls of the apartment complex. 106…. 107… 108…109…110.

_Finally. _

As he lifted his right foot to give the door one sharp kick, he noticed, the door was just slightly ajar, someone was inside; a key was still in the key hole. Rorschach bent down and his gloved hand took the key, it looked old, ancient, almost medieval. The key was normal sized for modern day, although it was iron, rounded at the top and between the rounded top and the rod of the key, imprinted into the side was a small skull.

_Hurm._

Shoving the key into his pocket, Rorschach entered the small apartment. It was simply quite and cold, on open window across from him, a slight deathly breeze blowing the curtains like ghost.

Continuing to move, he searched around the home. Someone was home though he could feel it. Quietly he walked through the home, looking around every corner, inspecting every crevice, nothing. No one.

_Damn_.

When… he had caught a slight whiff of something, something bitter it smelled like copper. Hurrying along, Rorschach walked into one last room, Rainford's supposed bedroom.

Looked under the bed, nothing. The small was strong.

Looked into the trunk, nothing. Stronger.

Looked into the closet, nothing. Stronger yet.

… The bathroom perhaps?

Rorschach walked across the room and pushed the bathroom door open, and a gust of a copper smell burned into his nose. The light switch was flipped on, and there rotting in the tub was dear departed Rainford Lombardi. Blood was pooling in the tub, which Rainford's body was practically bathing in. His body lay limp and dead, stabbed repeatedly in the chest, beaten over the head with a large unknown object, wrists slit, face brusied, rotting and moldering away in the tub.

As Rorschach's eyes examined the body, his eyes found their way to the mirror. The murderer of the murderer had a trade mark which was painted in what could be assumed Rainford's blood.

"SS?" whispered Rorschach, "Hurm. Talk to Daniel."


End file.
